congo, tiamca, colango, matinga

bambara, nago

senegal, creole

i am the head of luís congo

and i speak for him

lying

burnt and rotting in some farmer’s field.

and you

you may chant and shout

and dance about your bonfires on the levees.

and drink your aguardiente till you burst.

drink up until your eyes shine liquid.

and you will never have the vision that he had.

will never see the world as he saw.

what are you in the end

          but a wretched lot of slaves?

the lot of you

slaves

in an alien land

under the rule of a pale, slight and ghostly

                                                 and alien man?

you laugh

you drink

and for a moment

your pain is gone.

but i am here to tell you:

it is not over.

a thousand thousand betrayals hound you

among even those of you

dancing on this very water.

it is not over.

he is only dead.

he is not yet through

with you.

 

THE HEAD OF LUÍS CONGO CRIES OUT FOR WATER

agua

agua

agua—

if there is among you any congo man

any man with but a grain of pity in his soul

give ma a drink of water as i die.

but look

look they cry out in their festive voices

the head of luís congo

it speaks

it begs a drop of water

the head of the great murderer

our torturer

the head of luís congo cries out for water

 

THE HEAD OF LUÍS CONGO WEEPS

olurun bon dié mystère

here am i at the corssroads of death and life

i look out across a standing water

to the land of the dead—mpemba—

where i can not enter whole

and weep:

o mbanza kongo

where are you now?

i look and look

but i do not see

o mbanza kongo

i search but i can not find out

the streets of my ancestors

nor any relative to receive me

o holy mountain

high ground of my striving

source of every drop of blood upon my severed hands

what is to become of me

wasting in some petit farmer’s field

severed

rotting

burnt almost to ash

o sacred mountain

is this the doing of my two hands

and where are they now

olurun bon dié mystère

how am i fallen

now that my head is mounted on high?

 

THE HEAD OF LUÍS CONGO CALLS FOR HIS MEDICINE

o great god      good god

where is my healing powder

the balm to soothe to cleanse anoint and calm

my head my heart

my two strong severed hands

crushed beyond recognition

and burnt to solid ash?

bon dié   olurun

do not let the dogs 

the crow, the beasts of the field

do not let them feed upon me.

mystère   mystère

where now is my little pouch

my paquet d’medicin

my healing bag?

where now are my banganga des mystères

who cleansed my head and heart and hands

and told such great things for my life?

where is my little bag

my faith

my medicine from this evil day?

 

THE HEAD OF LUÍS CONGO CONFESSES HIS SIN

silence! all of you, silence!

i tell you i am the head of luís congo and i speak for him.

enough

enough

enough.

mbanza kongo rises in the distance now.

she rises but i cannot see her heights.

she rises but my ashen feet cannot find her golden paths.

she rises and i stand on high

blinded to the glory i have set before my ways.

enough then.

it is true.

i have killed.

i have captured.

i have tortured.

and when i could not kill or capture

i maimed as best i could.

at my hands

at my very words

men, women, children

the agèd and those with child

fell down in heaps along the waters of the bayou.

many a soul

from many a nation

did i send on the watery mpemba way.

my pockets my house even my bed

were lined with gold

white gold

yellow gold

the gold of earth’s roses.

and with every golden death among you

my house of gold rose higher and higher

nearer and nearer

the land of the ancestors.

and i became

every day closer to their way.

and all of you—

congo men and mongrel nations alike

all of you

lived with the very intimate fear

of my good killing hand.

it is all

all of it

most certainly true.

 

THE HEAD OF LUÍS CONGO HAS HIS LITTLE SAY

congo tiamca matinga

colango bambara sengal

negro creole and more—

it is a good thing to live in fear of a mighty man.

it is a good thing to cross the water of death

being sacrificed on the altars of the king.

i came as you came

a minor man

crossing not one but two deathly waters.

and with every one of your heads

the gold in the seams of my pants

the gold in the posts of my house

the gold in the four corners of my field

the gold between the jambes of my mulatta

the gold in the waters beside my great house

grew

and grew

and paved the road—ever higher—to my greatness.

and what if i made myself a king?

this is a strange land.

a nether man’s land.

it is true

it is true

it is true:

i captured and i killed and i did not look back

and now i am captured and killed and cannot see farther.

but i did not take from you your healing medicines.

i did not take from you your human qualities.

i sent you—every one of you—

whole to the ancestors

and now you stand behind the walls of blessèd mbanza kongo

laughing in your teeth

cursing the demise

of a mighty man

who helped you from your lowly life bondage

along the great mpemba way.

a curse for the peace you have in that great city

and i languish.

 

THE HEAD OF LUÍS CONGO BEGS A FAVOR

i am the head of luís congo.

and i have one small request from him.

if you cannot bend to give me back my medicine bag

then burn it with my ahses.

if you cannot lift up my eyes from where they droop along my cheeks

if you cannot lift them

so that i can see the great god

so that i can see the great city i will never enter whole—

i tell you

i am the severed head of luís congo.

i speak for him—

in the name of the fear and hatred you once knew of me

give me please

i beg of you

a bit of your cool

             fair

             water.